THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. Walter Scott

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СКАЧАТЬ A silver cross was in his right;

       The lamp was placed beside his knee;

       High and majestic was his look,

       At which the fellest fiends had shook,

       And all unruffled was his face:

       They trusted his soul had gotten grace.

       XX

      Often had William of Deloraine

       Rode through the battle’s bloody plain,

       And trampled down the warriors slain,

       And neither known remorse nor awe;

       Yet now remorse and awe he own’d;

       His breath came thick, his head swam round,

       When this strange scene of death he saw,

       Bewilder’d and unnerved he stood,

       And the priest pray’d fervently and loud:

       With eyes averted prayed he;

       He might not endure the sight to see,

       Of the man he had loved so brotherly.

       XXI

      And when the priest his death-prayer had pray’d,

       Thus unto Deloraine he said:

       “Now, speed thee what thou hast to do,

       Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue;

       For those, thou may’st not look upon,

       Are gathering fast round the yawning stone!”

       Then Deloraine, in terror, took

       From the cold hand the Mighty Book,

       With iron clasp’d, and with iron bound:

       He thought, as he took it, the dead man frown’d;

       But the glare of the sepulchral light,

       Perchance, had dazzled the warrior’s sight.

       XXII

      When the huge stone sunk o’er the tomb,

       The night return’d in double gloom;

       For the moon had gone down, and the stars were few;

       And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew,

       With wavering steps and dizzy brain,

       They hardly might the postern gain.

       ‘Tis said, as through the aisles they pass’d,

       They heard strange noises on the blast:

       And through the cloister-galleries small,

       Which at mid-height thread the cancel wall,

       Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran,

       And voices unlike the voice of man;

       As if the fiends kept holiday,

       Because these spells were brought to day.

       I cannot tell how the truth may be;

       I say the tale as ‘twas said to me.

       XXIII

      “Now, hie thee hence,” the Father said,

       “And when we are on deathbed laid,

       O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. John,

       Forgive our souls for the deed we have done!”

       The Monk return’d him to his cell,

       And many a prayer and penance sped;

       When the convent met at the noontide bell,

       The Monk of St. Mary’s aisle was dead!

       Before the cross was the body laid,

       With hands clasp’d fast, as if still he pray’d.

       XXIV

      The Knight breathed free in the morning wind,

       And strove his hardihood to find:

       He was glad when he pass’d the tombstones grey,

       Which girdle round the fair Abbaye;

       For the mistic Book, to his bosom prest,

       Felt like a load upon his breast;

       And his joints, with nerves of iron twined,

       Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind.

       Full fain was he when the dawn of day

       Began to brighten Cheviot grey;

       He joy’d to see the cheerful light,

       And he said Ave Mary, as well he might.

       XXV

      The sun had brighten’d Cheviot grey,

       The sun had brighten’d the Carter’s side;

       And soon beneath the rising day

       Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot’s tide.

       The wild birds told their warbling tale,

       And waken’d every flower that blows;

       And peeped forth the violet pale,

       And spread her breast the mountain rose.

       And lovelier than the rose so red,

       Yet paler than the violet pale,

       She early left her sleepless bed,

       The fairest maid of Teviotdale.

       XXVI

      Why does fair Margarent so early awake?

       And don her kirtle so hastilie;

       And the silken knots, which in hurry she would make,

       Why tremble her slender fingers to tie;

       Why does she stop, and look often around,

       As she glides down the secret stair;

       And why does she pat the shaggy bloodhound,

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